


The Treasure Hoard

by Vulgarweed



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-26
Updated: 2010-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:30:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vulgarweed/pseuds/Vulgarweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape has a lot of very good reasons to want Potter out of his Pensieve. So does McGonagall. (For the 30 Lemons prompt "Virtual Reality")</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Treasure Hoard

"He saw what, precisely?"

"I would prefer not to say what he saw," said Snape sullenly.

"I don't care what you prefer!" said McGonagall.

"Of course you don't. Gryffindors never do."

Oh. One of _those_ then.

Minerva sighed and felt her face relaxing --guiltily, selfishly. It must have been the school days again; Severus was, for just a moment, reverting to the prematurely bitter old man he'd been at sixteen. Of all the things the Potter boy could have seen…well, it wasn't good, but there was certainly much worse.

"You can't possibly think I'm that…incautious," Severus said, watching her face.

"Don't you Legilimance me, Severus. I have no idea what you were thinking letting him near your Pensieve at any rate, but clearly you didn't remove everything embarrassing…"

"No, not everything embarrassing, obviously," Snape snarled. "But I did remove everything _incriminating,_ just knowing the little wanker was going to be in the room."

"That must have been quite a task."

"It was an entertaining one."

"Really?" said Minerva. Severus's smirk was not in the least reassuring, and it was hardly an opportune time to dwell too much on the sort of memory he might actually enjoy reliving.

"Oh yes," he said, and now she thought she might be able to identify that particular smirk, the one that sidestepped difficult subjects entirely when he got tired of raging or sulking or any of the other wide range of performance styles he used to give his miseries and grudges their proper airing. It was the one that advertised that he was, from time to time, all too competent at finding ways to distract her.

Now she looked at the swirling silver liquid in the bowl with just a hint of a different flavour of trepidation, increasing suddenly as he stepped up behind her. "Did you think that was the only one I owned?"

"Now that you mention, you'd make a dreadful spy if you were so simple."

He laughed. "I am a dreadful spy, but that's not the reason." And she felt his fingers at the nape of her neck, and a gentle pressure there, and she shivered. He was pushing her head down, making her look, and she could have refused him, but for the scholar in her, fascinated by each glimpse of his mind behind its copious veils. The things she already knew could be very compelling.

She knew the room immediately as she fell in through the mist. Her old chambers, when she was just a Transfiguration professor and not yet Head of Gryffindor. When Severus was the new kid on the staff and the chip on his shoulder was even vaster than its current span. The year he'd finally let it out, reminded her how he'd looked at her in his seventh year, that focused, heated gaze returning, and she…

…Was opening her door for him now, in his memory. She watched him nod almost cordially, formally.

She watched herself open her robe with a mesmerised detachment. Her body wasn't young even then, but it didn't have to be – it was womanly and it was warm and it was nearly naked now, all curved shadows and soft patches, and though she could not see his dark eyes in the Pensieve vision, she remembered them vividly. And when she-as-he suddenly lunged and pressed her against the wall, it was her own curves she felt beginning to undulate against him; the stirring in her own crotch felt like, of all things, an _erection;_ she tasted her own Firewhisky and biscuits, felt her own lips opening for him and her own tongue touching his teeth and heard her own little yowl into his mouth.

Memories from two sides of it at once; her skin, his robes. Hands that seemed on the ends of her own wrist pulling the pin from her own hair and sliding over her own body; the warm cupping of a palm around a breast and the soft heaviness of the breast in the palm; the tightening peak of a nipple between fingertips and the moaning surge of the feel of that pinch.

"Severus…we mustn't…"

And it was _his_ fear she felt that she was serious.

She hadn't been. She'd said it while raising a leg and wrapping it around his hip, bending her body backwards against him. She felt the vibration of her own voice and saw what he had seen, the creamy bend of her skin as he bent to lick her nipple, to persuade her further. She felt the tickle of her own pubic curls against his fingertips and then, her own warm ridges of slickness, grinding shamelessly into his touch.

She wasn't talking anyone out of anything. But she had worried him; he caressed her carefully before driving a finger in hard, determined to erase her false hesitation.

She liked the look of her own face so swollen-lipped and feral.

She could almost feel her own sharp teeth in his neck.

She could definitely remember feeling his cock in her hand, velvety and alert, already slick at the tip and eliciting the most enticing groans from him as she stroked it.

It'd been _quick,_ that time. She'd hitched herself up with just a little hint of a Levitation, enough to align her entrance with him, the head of his prick so thick and round and eager, and then a shove, and…

She was _tight._ He'd been telling the truth when he muttered all those grunting vulgarities into her ear as he fucked her and she fucked back, his robes tearing under her claws and her bare skin sweat-slicked and sliding in his bruising grip. Her dark hair was wild and strands of it clung to the threads of the tapestry at her back and her pale face had a crimson flush and her eyes never once opened once he was all the way inside her and nearly all the way out again.

She marveled at this: to watch herself taking each thrust with such eager force, her breasts bouncing, her legs clenching, her hands convulsive around his back, clutching his small arse to pull him into her deeper on each stroke, snarling. She could nearly feel herself around his cock, wet and pulsing, opening; tenderest flesh on flesh and tiny moist sounds…The rhythm was his but the counterstrikes were hers, and he came first, quickly, every muscle of his body turned rigid as bone.

But he hadn't let her go until his fingers finished her job and she arched and bucked against him. It had been a matter of pride, she understood now. She watched her own face, contorted and softly screaming as if in pain, but not nearly so ugly.

And then she was out of the vision, and she was older, and Severus was older, and he was biting her neck and sliding his hands under her robes with a certain patience born of practice. "All the good memories are here," he murmured, "They're mine."

"And mine," she said thickly, scrabbling at his buttons awkwardly behind her as she tilted her arse up to cushion the slight involuntary thrusts of his cloth-covered erection.

"I'm making a new memory right now," he whispered as they both sank to their knees and he took her from behind, slowly, her face pressed against the silky dark wood of the table leg and above them, the Pensieve sloshing with their movements approvingly.

 

~fin~


End file.
